


Beauty Lays Behind the Hills

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disbelief warred with disgust across Porthos' scarred face.  He growled, shaking his head.  “I'd rather die like a man than be hunted like an animal.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: This entire fic was inspired by “Run Boy Run” by Woodkid, which was used in a trailer for the show. To me, it is very much a Porthos song.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

_Run boy run! This world is not made for you._  
 _Run boy run! They’re trying to catch you._  
 _Run boy run! Running is a victory._  
 _Run boy run! Beauty lays behind the hills._ \--Run Boy Run, Woodkid

 

* * *

 

There was the crack of a gun and the earth was rushing up at him. Rich leaves, that smelled of late summer and crisp morning. There was thunder and yelling and why couldn't he figure out which way was up?

A hand grabbed the back of his doublet, hauling him to his knees.

The end of the pistol dug into his jaw, forcing d'Artagnan's face up. He looked around as much as he could, at the men he didn't recognize.

Porthos stood at the edge of the road, gun in hand and murder in his eyes.

“If you value this man, I suggest you put your gun down and listen to my proposal,” came a voice from behind him.

Porthos slowly lowered his pistol, his eyes sweeping over d'Artagnan and the men surrounding them.

“I'm listenin'.” A man no older than Porthos, wearing a black cloak, sauntered into view, slowly circling the big Musketeer.

“The terms are thus, you get a knife and a head start, oh, say, twenty minutes or so. Then we'll come looking.” D'artagnan frowned despite himself. He wasn't understanding any of this.

“Come looking?” echoed Porthos slowly.

“Men make such excellent quarry.”

“You mean to hunt me?” The disbelief warred with disgust across Porthos' scarred face. “And what? This is sport to you? You afraid of honest combat?” he growled, shaking his head. “I'd rather die like a man than be hunted like an animal.”

“Well, that is certainly your choice. I've no qualms with shooting you down and leaving your body for the crows. And when you're dead, we'll hunt your young friend here instead. And if he won't rabbit?” The man gave a congenial smile and shrugged. “It'll all be over rather quickly. And I'll be ever so disappointed.”

D'Artagnan stared at Porthos, sick with realization. He wasn't confused. This was madness. He tensed, ready and waiting for some signal, some sign to fight back. But the big man never looked his way.

“How do I know you won't just kill him anyway?”

“Think what you will of us, Monsieur, but we are not barbarians. You have my word. If you win, you live. But if you lose...well...he'll do for a nice second hunt.”

D'Artagnan looked at Porthos' thoughtful expression and horror began clawing its way up through his chest. Porthos was considering it, if for no other reason than to give d'Artagnan a chance to escape. D'Artagnan struggled against the men holding him.

“Porthos, don't.” The barrel of the pistol came to rest against his cheek.

“Come now, Porthos, was it?” said the man in black, picking out the name from d'Artagnan's shout. “Time is wasting. Do you need...motivation?” The gun at d'Artagnan's cheek pulled back and delivered a blow to his temple. The Gascon couldn't stop a cry of pain. He blinked quickly, trying to clear the sparks in his sight. He couldn't blur out again. Porthos was finally looking at him.

“Alright.” Porthos' voice was steady, resigned. He gazed at the younger man forlornly, and then a mask came down and Porthos was completely without expression. He looked like a stranger.

Those suddenly unknowable eyes followed d'Artagnan as he bucked and kicked, and screamed Porthos' name as they dragged him away.

 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

 

Porthos forced himself to stillness, even as d'Artagnan's shouts faded and then cut off.

They stripped away his blades, belts, and his pistol. His doublet and his hat. Porthos was left kneeling in his shirtsleeves.

The man in black tossed a knife several feet away.

“Your time starts now,” he said, leaning in to whisper so closely his lips nearly touched Porthos' ear. “You had better run, boy.”

 

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos stared into his cup, but didn't feel much like drinking. The foursome had split up for separate missions, but they had planned to rendezvous in Artenay before heading back to Paris. Porthos and d'Artagnan were supposed to meet up with them well before noon.

It was late in the afternoon and still no sign of them.

Athos wasn't surprised when Aramis finally spoke.

“Something is wrong.” He glanced over at Athos. “They should not be this late.”

“I agree. But who can say the reason?”

“You missing somebody?” wondered the barkeeper.

“Some friends were to meet us here. They must have been quite delayed,” answered Aramis politely. The short man frowned and continued to wipe down the bar.

“Seems to be happening around here an awful lot.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Athos.

“Last six months or so. People coming this way from Orleans going missing.”

“How many people?” asked Aramis. The barkeep shrugged.

“Hard to say, but I know of at least three who were supposed to meet someone here and never made it. And another three or four been asked about. If anyone had seen them. Just disappeared somewhere between Orleans and Artenay.

“Any of them turn up?” Athos watched Aramis very deliberately relax his hands.

“Not that I ever heard.”

“Could there be a band of thieves working the road?” offered Athos.

“Never heard about anyone getting robbed. No bodies. People are just gone.”

Athos didn't believe in coincidence. And chances were, if there was trouble to be found, Porthos and d'Artagnan would either step in it or try to stop it.

Either could explain their absence.

Aramis searched Athos' face before he spoke.

“So, we'll search the road to Orleans.” It wasn't a question

“Let's go.”

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have huge chunks of this finished, I just need to connect the dots. 
> 
> I appreciated all the feedback that leaves me to believe I'm not sucking it up here and the offering of ideas.
> 
> And thanks to everyone who encouraged me to just shut up and let Athos talk, as he seems very wont to do this time around...

 

* * *

They rode slowly for two hours before Athos called a stop.

“What is it?” asked Aramis, scanning the surrounding trees. Athos didn't answer right away. There was a patch of earth and leaves that was disturbed, turned up recently. He sat and listened. The woods were quiet, filled with nothing but the sounds of birds. He examined the ground.

“Something fell here and was dragged away. Something big.” They dismounted and followed the drag marks. Away from the road, out of sight from anyone who wasn't looking, was the body of a black stallion. Even stripped of its tack, Athos recognized it.

“That's d'Artagnan's horse,” he said quietly.

“It's been shot,” Aramis pointed out.

“We're getting close.”

From the road, they picked up the signs of a struggle. Crushed plants and sporadic drag marks. Yards from the sight of any traveler on the thoroughfare, hidden by thick undergrowth, was a camp.

There, built like a lean-to around a large oak, was what looked like no more than a hunting cabin.

As they approached, a young man came around the side of the cabin. His eyes went round with surprise and before Athos could even speak, he raised his pistol.

But Aramis was faster and the man fell in a heap. Athos nudged him over, but he was clearly already dead.

“Would have been nice to ask him a question or two.”

“I'm sorry,” replied Aramis lightly, reloading. “He seemed rather impatient to kill you. My mistake.” Athos felt the corners of his mouth turn up.

“Well, shall we see if anyone is home? Do try to leave them alive for a bit.” Aramis dipped his head gallantly.

Athos drew his own pistol and walked toward the shelter. He looked to Aramis and pulled the rough door open quickly and Aramis leveled his gun and peered inside. He chuckled softly.

“I'm fairly certain I'll let this one live, Athos.” Athos looked over Aramis' shoulder and felt warm relief slide down his shoulders.

D'Artagnan blinked at them owlishly from the darkness of the cabin. The newest Musketeer was bound to the tree that made up the lean-to's support. As his eyes finally adjusted to the light streaming in from the open door, frantic energy welled up, and he pulled at his bonds, mumbling behind the cloth covered his mouth. Athos' smile quickly fell.

As he worked at the ropes and Aramis undid the gag, Athos took in his young friend's state.

Athos had seen d'Artagnan in plenty of dangerous situations. Situations that most men are not equipped to handle, and yet d'Artagnan had never shrank from them, nor panicked. But right now, fear was rolling of him in waves.

“We have...” D'Artagnan rasped, coughed and then tried again. “We have to go. They're hunting Porthos.”

“Did he escape? Then why are you still here?” asked Aramis.

D'Artagnan pulled on Athos' jacket, his voice nearly frantic.

“No, they're _hunting_ him. For...sport.” For a moment, Athos could not pull any air into his lungs. Surely, d'Artagnan was confused.

“Explain,” he ordered. “From the beginning.”

“There isn't time!” exclaimed d'Artagnan.

“We cannot go charging off without an understanding of what has happened. From the beginning.” D'Artagnan took a deep breath and wiped at his face with trembling hands.

“They shot my horse. Had a pistol on me before Porthos could do anything.”

“How many?” asked Athos.

“Five.”

“Well, only four now,” murmured Aramis.

“The leader told Porthos to run.”

“He said he wanted to hunt you? Actually said that?” interrupted Aramis. D'Artagnan nodded quickly.

“They told Porthos they'd give him a head start and then they'd come after him. If he refused, they'd shoot him and hunt me instead. The man said the only way we'd live, is if Porthos won.”

“How long ago?”

“This morning, couldn't have been much after 8 o'clock.” Aramis cursed and turned away. Athos ignored him.

“Anything else? Have you heard anything? Seen anyone?” D'Artagnan shook his head.

“No, no one. No shots, either, until just now.” He paused for a moment. “The leader, the man in black...he said...” D'Artagnan's voice quavered. “He said 'men make excellent quarry'.” He looked at Athos with pleading eyes. “Athos...”

“None of this is your fault,” he interjected. “The horses are outside, eat and drink something. We're going after them.” D'Artagnan glanced at Aramis and stepped out of the shelter.

Athos looked at his friend's stiff back. And then he recognized the things he'd found. Porthos' sword, pistol and belts were in a heap in the corner.

“Aramis.”

When Aramis turned, Porthos' doublet was clenched in his fists.

“I'll kill them.” His voice was calm, almost casual. But his face...

Aramis was amiable and debonair. He could diffuse a fight or convince a woman with his effortless smile. It wasn't always an act, but it was a skill. One Aramis used with the same accuracy with which he shot the centers out of bulls-eyes. Athos wasn't certain that he'd ever seen Aramis lose control. Even when it seemed like he was behaving recklessly, it wasn't because he was thoughtless. No, it was because he focused so tightly. Fixated on one target, consequences and everything else would slip away.

It made him an irresistible seducer.

An excellent marksman.

A ruthless adversary.

When Aramis looked over at Athos, there was no endearing rogue. His concentration was honed keenly and coldly.

“As slowly as I can manage. I will kill them all.”

Athos nodded. He expected nothing different from Aramis.

Because this was Porthos.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“Was he one of them?” Athos asked. D'Artagnan stood, staring down at the man Aramis had shot.

“Yes.”

“Probably left behind to make sure Porthos didn't double back and you didn't escape.”

In the afternoon light, he could better see the bruise that bloomed over the side of d'Artagnan's face. He fought down the anger that was now a rolling boil in his gut.

Because Athos needed to settle d'Artagnan down. He'd spent the better part of a day tied to a tree with nothing to do but exist in his own head. He was still shaking, anxiety creasing his too young face. He put his hand's on d'Artagnan's shoulders, squeezing firmly.

“Listen to me,” he said, forcing d'Artagnan's eyes up to his. “Porthos is a skilled fighter, especially hand-to-hand. And more importantly, when it comes to improvisation, he's the most dangerous man I've ever seen.” Athos softened his voice. “Do not despair of him yet.” Guilt and worry danced across d'Artagnan's face, but he took a deep breath, marshaling his emotions.

“How did you know we needed help?”

“Innkeeper in Artenay. Apparently, this has been going on for some time. Travelers never making it do their destinations. Going missing.”

“They've done this...to others?” Athos watched d'Artagnan carefully, but the panic didn't resurface. Only disgust.

“It seems so. This whole situation smacks of practice. The ambush, the conditions.”

“Porthos only agreed in order to protect me,” admitted d'Artagnan.

“It doesn't sound like he had any other options,” said Athos, stepping back. “He knew we'd come looking. Let's not disappoint him.”

“I'm going to stay here.” Athos blinked in surprise. D'Artagnan went on quickly. “We don't even know where to start. They might come back here. Porthos will definitely return, if he can. I don't want him to find an empty shelter and no sign of me.”

“That's a good idea,” said Athos, impressed. He'd wanted to suggest it, but he was afraid the head-strong Gascon would hear no part of it. The boy was learning.

“We'll regroup here at nightfall.” Aramis looked at him sharply.

“That only in a few hours, Athos.”

“I know. But they know this area, we don't. What kind of rescue party are we, stumbling around in the dark? It will allow us to split up.” Aramis looked like he was going to object, but he clenched his jaw and said nothing. He walked over to his horse, grabbing extra munitions.

Athos did likewise, removing his hat and cloak, slinging a water skin across his shoulder. D'Artagnan stepped up next to him, voice soft.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I told you, Porthos will be fine.”

“Not Porthos.” Athos gave d'Artagnan a measured look from under his hat.

“Aramis guards Porthos so fiercely. He's nearly taken our heads off and we're his friends.” D'Artagnan shook his head. “I hate to think what he'll do anyone else.”

“Porthos has not had an easy life. He grew up alone.” Athos stopped and scanned the forest slowly. “He is a Musketeer now, with a home and companions. But Aramis works very hard to make sure Porthos never has reason to doubt it.”

“Surely Porthos knows,” said d'Artagnan, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“Of course. But, we all need reminders, now and again.” He clapped d'Artagnan gently on the shoulder and raised his voice so Aramis would hear. “Stay alert. If Porthos returns, fire two shots. We'll head back this way.”

“How do you want to do this?” asked Aramis, his voice cold.

“I'll take the east, you the west?” Aramis nodded when Athos looked over, his hands tight on his musket.

“Porthos bought time the only way he could,” said Athos. “Let's not keep him waiting any longer.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: This entire fic was inspired by “Run Boy Run” by Woodkid, which was used in a trailer for the show. To me, it is very much a Porthos song.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
> 
> Writing fight scenes is hard...

 

* * *

 

“ _You had better run, boy.”_

And Porthos did, scooping up the knife and crashing into the trees.

Except it wasn't a forest, it was the streets of Paris. And he was a child again.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

_The church bells sounded in the distance as his bare feet slapped over the cobble and dirt roads. The shouts and calls echoed up the streets, following after him._

_His only hope was to make it back to The Court before they caught up with him._

_They'd been roaming, young noblemen looking for a distraction. Porthos was used to taking advantage of marks. Not becoming one._

“ _Let the little mongrel loose. And we can give a merry chase.”_

“ _It'll be great fun. Let's see how fast the dog can go.”_

“ _You better run, boy.”_

_He sprinted and dodged, running for his life. Porthos didn't know how far he'd gone when he finally ducked into a doorway and tried to catch his breath._

“ _Dumb,” he gasped to himself. He'd let them frighten him, goad him into a mad sprint through the city. If he didn't smarten up and quick, the little lordlings would catch him._

_Mongrel. Dog. Boy. They reverberated through the alleys and pounded on his heart._

“ _Words,” he whispered. “Just words.” Porthos looked about, noting the street. You would be hard pressed to find anyone who knew the paths of Paris like the children of The Court of Miracles._

_He lifted his chin, his lips tight. If the bastards wanted a race, he'd give them one._

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos stopped and changed routes sharply. He had no intention of being in the direction they'd seen him go.

He was no longer a frightened boy, even if they called him one. Those words were aimed to hurt him, meant to destroy him. But they didn't. Porthos had been called far worse the whole of his life. Mere insults did not get to have power over him.

D'Artagnan was counting on him.

He found a sturdy branch, nearly five long. It would do for now. Porthos changed trajectory again. He would not make it simple for them to find him. And it certainly wouldn't get easier for them once they did.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos had been criss-crossing the forest for hours. He judged it had to be near noon. The terrain was not especially dense, easily moved through. There were some bluffs and rock outcroppings, but with no pistol, they didn't serve him much as a perch. Even if he found a good hiding spot, he couldn't cower in a hole. Porthos was willing to bet the men hunting him knew this area very well and would find him. And he didn't want them to lose interest and decide d'Artagnan would be better game.

Instinct warned him a second before the shot. Porthos dove for the ground and the bullet that would have caught him in stomach only creased a line of fire along his waist. He stood quickly and found his attacker. The man was one of the five, but not the leader. He tossed down his pistol and drew his sword, stalking toward Porthos with a wild grin. Porthos gritted his teeth and hefted his branch.

It wasn't fast or easy, but it blocked his opponent's sword which sliced at him quickly from either side. He reminded Porthos of d'Artagnan, all speed and passion, not yet tempered by time and experience.

Good. That helped Porthos plan.

He blocked attack after attack, his arms absorbing the slices and ripostes. The man got in too close and Porthos took advantage, snapping his head forward sharply. The man's nose broke with a sickening crunch. He staggered back a couple of steps, but gathered himself quickly. He flashed Porthos a bloody smile and ran forward. He swung high and wide. Even if Porthos parried, the blade could still come down and penetrate his defenses.

Instead, Porthos rolled forward, letting his momentum move him under the strike. He came up in a crouch, pivoted on his knee and swung his improvised staff.

The branch caught the man in the back of his legs and he fell onto his back.

There was a scramble for the sword. The man swung his elbow, catching Porthos in the cheekbone, but the big man pulled the sword free and came to his feet.

The man stood empty-handed for a moment, eyeing Porthos and his lost sword before turning and running.

Porthos pulled his knife out of his boot and threw it in one smooth motion. It caught the fleeing man in the back and he went down hard. And didn't get up.

Porthos bent and tried to catch his breath, chest heaving.

The movement fanned the flame in his side and he remembered the shot. He pulled up the tail of his shirt and examined the wound. A graze, but a deep one. Blood had soaked the side of his shirt, running down his waist and into his pants. He needed to bind it. It probably needed stitches. Porthos dropped the hem of the shirt and let his chin fall to his chest.

He wished Aramis...

He sniffed and tightened his lips. No time for that now and it was best that Aramis was safe and nowhere near. He ripped the lower part of his shirt into long strips and wound them around his torso best he could. Porthos picked up the sword and then retrieved his knife from the back of the man he'd killed. No honor is knifing someone in the back.

Porthos had done many things he was not proud of. When you grew up in the Court, you did whatever you had to in order to survive the night.

Porthos knew he was doing what he must, that he had little choice if he and d'Artagnan were going to survive this mess, but he hated that they had driven him to this. Had pulled him back into a cutthroat violence that he had fought so hard to escape. He shook his head sharply. Time to move.

He searched the dead man, but he carried nothing else useful, no extra shot or powder, but he did have a knife, which Porthos stuck in his other boot.

He looked and the bandage at his waist was already soaked though. He couldn't leave a blood trail, too easy to track. Porthos ripped the sleeves from the man's shirt and folded them, tucking them into the strips. That would hold a good while longer.

He stood carefully and listened.

Birdsong and insects. No sounds of anyone coming to investigate the shot. Porthos set out again, this time heading north.

One down.

* * *

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: This entire fic was inspired by “Run Boy Run” by Woodkid, which was used in a trailer for the show. To me, it is very much a Porthos song.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
> 
> And thus, our boys get a bit dark.
> 
> **Also, I used the names of the horses that doomcanary came up with in the lovely story, "Darling". Hopefully, that's okay.

* * *

 

D'Artagnan nodded to Athos and watched the older man slip away through the trees. There was a piece of him that wished he was going out there, too. But he knew he'd made the right choice in staying behind, if for no other reason than the quiet approval that shone in Athos' eyes.

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose slightly at the scent of decay that wafted on the wind. There must be some dead animal nearby. Perhaps some other traveler's horse, he thought sourly. Thinking of the horses, he led them around the cabin to look for a good place to picket them. He'd like them out of sight, just in case any of the men came back to the cabin. No need to give themselves away first thing.

The horses' ears pricked and d'Artagnan was immediately wary. But a soft nicker revealed Porthos' horse, along with two others, picketed near a small wagon. It was well camouflaged in a thicket.

Of course. These men obviously didn't live out here in the middle of no where. They rode in for their disgusting games and then rode out again.

“Hey Bourbon,” he greeted Porthos' horse gently, stroking his forehead. He looked none the worse for wear. He tied Athos' and Aramis' horses to the high line, next to the others.

There was a bucket near where the horses were tied. He grabbed it and walked down a gentle decline, hoping for a stream or pond. The sun dappled through the leaves, growing more gold as the hours past. Nightfall wouldn't be long.

As he walked, the hairs on the back of his neck raised and D'Artagnan stopped to listen warily. He noticed a buzzing noise and the smell of rot was stronger here. D'Artagnan stepped further down the hill, looking around for the cause and nearly stumbled into a shallow pit.

D'Artagnan thought he'd known horror. The horror at watching his father die, of losing his farm, of being left to die in fiery explosion all alone. But the sight before him in the cheerful afternoon sunlight was an atrocity unlike any he had ever seen.

Bodies. The bodies of horses and men and women. Thrown together into the hollow, covered with branches and stones and earth, but not enough to truly hide them.

All in various stages of decay and scavenge. Tattered dresses in bright floral patterns and tangled hair that did not shine in the light. Clawed, grasping hands and ripped coats were visible beneath the swarms of flies that darkened the mass with a undulating haze.

All at once, the stench and the seething buzz was overwhelming, a solid force that sucker-punched him and pushed him back. He couldn't breathe.

He didn't remember running back to the horses, but he had. Pressing his face into Bourbon's warm shoulder, he gasped. Slowly, the smell of horse overtook the reek of death and his heart slowed.

Monsters. These men were monsters and they wanted to add Porthos to that pile, like so much garbage. And then they'd do the same to him.

D'Artagnan inhaled deeply and stood up, squaring his shoulders.

Athos wouldn't let that happen. And God help the men that Aramis found.

He realized he still had the bucket clenched in his hand. The horses still needed watering. And his friends would appreciate a rinse when they returned in a few hours. Because they would be back. He set off again, in another direction.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

 

Aramis loved a vantage point. Enjoyed seeing the world laid out before him. The flow, the patterns that you missed when you were within them. The privacy and the disconnection.

Because of the way people often forgot to look up.

His shot caught the man in the shoulder. He went down, wailing. Aramis slid down the bluff face, scattering rocks and saplings in his wake. Aramis kicked the man's pistol away.

“Are you one of these hunters?” asked Aramis darkly.

He saw now the man was barely that, he couldn't have been older than twenty. He scrambled back, trying to get away. Aramis circled him widely, slowly reloading his musket.

“Are you? Do you stop people on the road and then turn them loose only to hunt them down?”

“Yes, but...”

“What is your name?” The young man stopped, puzzled.

“What?” Aramis kicked at his leg.

“Your name. What is it?”

“I...” He thrust his chin forward, even as it trembled. “Why should I tell you?”

“Why? Oh, I will tell you why,” said Aramis, still circling. “So that your name and the name of your family may be cursed and reviled. So that everyone who hears it knows what you have done. Your mother, your father, your sisters and brothers, children and cousins. Your punishment will fall on them and haunt them for generations. I will make sure of it.”

The man finally gave up his pretense of bravery. Fear filled his eyes and he pulled himself to his knees, his one good hand coming up in supplication.

“Stop, please! Mercy!”

“Mercy?” hissed Aramis. “You ask me for mercy?” He continued to stalk around the kneeling man.

“If I grant you any kindness, it will be a clean death. And only if you prove yourself useful. Where is Porthos?”

“I don't know, I haven't been able to catch sight of him.” Aramis kicked the boy back and pressed his boot to his blood-soaked arm. He screamed.

“I swear it! I don't know!”

“How many people have you killed, hmm?” The man said nothing, tears rolling down to fall to the dirt. “How many?!”

“They could have escaped!” cried the youth. “It was all sporting!” Aramis stomped down, white-hot rage arcing through the insulating cold that he'd built around himself. And he ached. Ached for Porthos and for d'Artagnan and the unknown dead and this foolish child who'd been led astray by people who genuinely thought this hunt was fair.

His own hurt blended with the sounds of screaming.

“How can you say that!? They were people! Not animals, not beasts!” He whirled away, clawing a hand through his hair, and then stalked back. The man whimpered, huddled before him.

Part of him wanted that. Wanted this nightmare of a human to cower. To pay for what he'd done. For what he was willing to do. Aramis' felt his icy armor fall back into place.

His voice was barely more than a murmur when he spoke.

“Porthos is not prey. He is my friend. And you are a demon that the darkest pits of Hell are too good for. Perhaps God will have mercy on you.” Aramis pulled his main gauche from his belt. “But I certainly will not.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

 

The tree above his head splintered. Athos ducked down and spotted the man, behind a large oak, already moving to reload his musket.

Athos crossed the distance in seconds, sword out.

The man dropped his musket and drew his sword. They circled each other slowly. Athos let the man go on the offensive. He turned away every attack, but Athos could tell the man was holding back.

“Where is he? Where is Porthos?” asked Athos.

“Who?” the man asked without a hint of innocence.

Athos leapt forward and sliced down, catching the man's off forearm. He hissed and backed away, watching Athos with a great deal more wariness.

“I don't want it to be like this,” said Athos diplomatically. “Just tell me where he is.”

The man sneered and advanced, swinging his sword down, at Athos' leg. He parried and then riposted, but the man danced away.

“Where is he?”

They fought through the trees, ducking and slashing for several minutes.

Athos saw an opening and he cut across his opponent's other arm. The man's sword fell to the ground, both his hands limp. He backed away slowly, but Athos gave him no ground. Athos kept his sword leveled and mere inches from the man's face and studies him carefully. He wanted answers.

Athos lightly sliced his cheek.

“Where is he?” The man flinched back.

“I think I saw him heading north. But I can't be sure.”

“How long have you been doing this? This sick game?”

“Months.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

With a surge, Athos neatly whirled, sword up and over his head and then down, cutting the man across his hamstrings. He fell to the forest floor, bellowing in pain. When the wails of pain stopped and he was looking at Athos murderously, he asked again.

“Why?”

“Because it's fun,” spat the man without sorrow or guilt. “Because we can. People are more entertaining than animals. They can be more clever. And in the end, they beg.” Athos stared for a long, long time.

He recalled another day he'd had bested a cruel man and had him at his mercy on the ground. The Duke of Savoy. Athos had been angry then. He remembered the heat of it, the near loss of control. Athos would say that honor had stayed his wrath that day, but it wasn't entirely true. A big, strong hand on his shoulder and a triumphant laugh had. Porthos had pulled him away before he could do something he'd regret.

But Porthos wasn't here.

Whatever he was feeling now was something beyond fury. Deliberate and incandescent.

Porthos wasn't here.

“They begged,” Athos confirmed. “And that was entertaining to you? You felt enlivened by it?” He lowered his sword. “Are you going to beg?” he asked calmly.

“No.”

“Good,” said Athos and his sword flashed in the evening sun, fast and unerring. He walked away from the dead man without so much as a downward glance.

 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: This entire fic was inspired by “Run Boy Run” by Woodkid, which was used in a trailer for the show. To me, it is very much a Porthos song.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
> 
> Nearly done...

 

 

Porthos crouched down behind a rock shelf and listened carefully while catching his breath.

He winced, dropping to one knee at the pain in his side, just above his hip. He lifted his shirt and examined the bandage. It was stained, but not soaked through, which was really the only positive. There was a tight heat radiating from the wound. Porthos dropped the edge of the shirt, ripped and discolored from branches, stones, and blood.

He couldn't keep going like this. It had been hours of running and dodging and his endurance was nearly up. Porthos had found a stream a while back, but he was hesitant to visit it again, no matter how thirsty he was. It was too tempting an ambush location. And he needed food that wasn't nuts and berries scooped up on the run. Porthos studied the lengthening shadows. It was time to find some sort of shelter, he couldn't keep trampling about through the night. These men knew this ground better than he did, but he doubted even they would continue after dark. Porthos let his eyes close.

A night hiding in the woods with no supplies was bad enough. But if these men returned to their base camp, they'd be with d'Artagnan and that was the last thing he wanted. He hated to think of them amusing themselves with the young man through the night. Or turning their hunting attentions to him, come morning.

He could double back, get to the road and use it to find the place they'd been ambushed. But Porthos was willing to bet they'd left at least one guard...

The snapping twig behind him was the clarion call that let Porthos know he'd been careless, distracted.

He forced the pain and the weariness down and stood up. The man in black leaned against a tree, smiling lightly.

“I must say, Porthos, you have led us a masterful chase. I never expected you to last so long.” Porthos didn't answer, just lifted his stolen sword and set his feet. “Ah, down to business then. Well, I'm all for it. Rather tired of trampling through the trees.” He drew his sword and swung it through the air.

Porthos didn't wait. He rushed forward, stabbing with as much speed as could, but the man in black danced to the side. He brought his own sword in a wide arc towards Porthos' back. Porthos twisted away, deflecting the blow. Porthos lunged again, but too far and the man in black's fist caught him across the face in a backhand. It landed on the same cheek hit earlier, and pain shot from his ear down to the tips of his fingers.

The man in black reversed, coming around with a downward slice. Porthos blocked high and then swung low, but the man jumped back. Porthos followed after, landing a punch to the man's face. He stumbled, fingers pressed against his split lip. He wasn't smiling anymore.

He slipped his main gauche from behind his back. Porthos leaned down and pulled one of the knives from his boot.

The man jumped toward Porthos and brought his swing down. Porthos caught it with his crossed sword and knife and lifted his leg, kicked his opponent squarely in the chest.

The man in black stumbled, rolling to his back and coming up smoothly his feet. Porthos grunted in frustration. He needed to end this now. He was too tired, too slow.

His opponent seemed to sense his advantage. He moved fast, straight ahead with repeated jabs, forcing Porthos back.

And Porthos let him.

Then, the man in black stabbed forward completely, extending his arm.

It was the move Porthos had been waiting for.

Porthos dropped his sword and stepped to the side, hooking the man's arm with his now free hand. He sliced across the man's inner arm with his knife, making the hand useless. Before the man's sword had even fallen to the ground, Porthos reversed his motion and grip, pulling back and cutting deeply through the man's neck. It wasn't especially fast or flashy. It was simple and effective.

Shock filled the man's eyes as he grasped at Porthos' shirt with weak fingers, hot blood drenching them both.

“What? Not as fun as you imagined?” asked Porthos. He pulled the man close, staring into his face. “No more runnin'.” His words were steel. Porthos let go and the man in black fell to the earth.

“I'm not your boy.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos had heard the ringing of swords, but as he approached the slight rise, it was terribly quiet. The forest burned with the light of the setting sun, golden and scarlet.

Red like the grass at Porthos' feet.

A man entirely in black lay in a crumpled heap.

“Porthos,” called Athos quietly. The big man swung around, knife coming up in a flash. His face was flat, closed off. Empty.

Athos sheathed his sword and held up his hands, but he made no move forward. Slowly, a crack appeared in the mask and Athos saw a bit of his friend beneath it.

“Athos?” Porthos squinted at him, disbelieving.

“Yes, just me.” Porthos just stood there for a long minute and stared at him uncertainly. Athos took the time to study him. His shirt was tatters and filthy. He looked at the blood covering Porthos and wondered how much of it was his. One of his cheeks was swollen and purple. And he looked so tired.

Athos opened his arms slightly. “Porthos, I'm here.” The facade shattered.

“Athos.” It was a sob, though Athos would never admit it to anyone else.

Athos was a soldier, a leader, a protector of His Majesty the King of France. He was, most days, the very soul of self-possession and detachment. He prided himself on his ability to channel his feelings and to keep a clear head, or at least to give that impression.

But the way that Porthos said his name, here in this forest of death and degradation, was the important thing. The way he lowered his knife and nearly dropped to his knees, exhaustion in every inch of him. How easily he let Athos take the weapon and just leaned against him. Willing to relinquish the fight, the vigilance.

Porthos trusted Athos to protect him. To take care of him.

It was humbling.

And as he held Porthos close, Athos vowed that he would find a way to be worthy of it.

They stood that way, evening descending around them, when Porthos finally spoke.

“D'Artagnan?”

“We found him, he's alright.” Athos felt the nod against his shoulder.

“Aramis?”

“He's looking for you. We'll meet him back at the camp. Are you able...”

“M'fine,” muttered Porthos, forcing himself upright.

“You don't have to be,” said Athos. Porthos looked utterly destroyed for a second, pain and something else on his face and then it was gone.

Athos reached hesitantly toward the side that Porthos was clearly favoring. “You're injured...”

“Yes,” said Porthos shortly. “But it'll keep for now.” He managed to meet Athos' eyes.

“Just want to go home,” Porthos murmured. His voice was almost imploring and Athos' chest clenched.

“Of course,” reassured Athos.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Evening had nearly given way fully to night by the time Athos and Porthos stumbled their way to the road and then followed it to the place where the camp was set back. As they approached, Athos could see Aramis in the light of a camp fire, pacing and running a hand through his unruly hair, the other on his sword.

Then he realized Porthos had stopped. He backtracked to the large man, his face shadowed.

“Porthos?”

He didn't say anything, but Porthos had that look again. Hurt and longing and something else, but finally Athos could name it.

Shame. Porthos looked ashamed.

Athos stepped in close and stared up at Porthos fiercely, but did not raise his voice.

“Listen well, Porthos du Vallon, whatever you did. No matter what they forced you to do, we will not judge you for it. Not me and not them,” he said as gestured toward the camp. “Those men were mad dogs that needed to put down. You've nothing to be ashamed of. And you've no reason to doubt your welcome. Not with us. Not ever.”

Porthos ducked his head for a moment, but lifted it again quickly and nodded once.

“Alright.”

Athos laid his hand on Porthos' shoulder and gave him a gentle push toward the light and their friends.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: This entire fic was inspired by “Run Boy Run” by Woodkid, which was used in a trailer for the show. To me, it is very much a Porthos song.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.
> 
> Finally, finally our boys are back together.

D'Artagnan sat and stared out into the night, waiting. Aramis had paced and then gone still and then paced again. He hadn't said much when he arrived at the little camp, but his dark eyes roamed, searching. D'Artagnan had shook his head slightly. Athos wasn't back yet. And neither of them had seen any sign of Porthos.

D'Artagnan had found some lanterns in the lean-to and they sat ready. There was a bucket of fresh water and some clean cloths. He didn't know what else to do.

So they waited. And the darkness grew.

 

Aramis froze and his eyes went wide. D'Artagnan followed his gaze as Porthos and Athos emerged from the treeline. D'Artagnan stood quickly, nearly running to meet them.

“Porthos? Did you find them? Do we need...” Athos held up a hand and d'Artagnan trailed off.

“I took one,” said Athos, looking across the fire. Aramis nodded stiffly.

“I handled two.”

“Then s'all good,” said Porthos lowly. He reached out toward d'Artagnan, as though to touch him, but pulled back. Porthos managed a twisted smile. “No more worries from any of those lot.” Relief bloomed through d'Artagnan and the steel that had been locked through his shoulders eased.

“I am glad to hear it.” He took in the ripped, stained cloth hanging on Porthos' broad frame. “Are you alright?” D'Artagnan did not miss the look that Athos shot Aramis and the man was quickly unbuckling his belts and shedding his doublet.

“Let's get this off then, and see what work you've made for me,” said Aramis lightly as he helped Porthos shed the ruined shirt. An array of scratches and bruises were all underscored by a bloody bandage that circled Porthos' waist.

Aramis carefully unwound the fabric, but the dried blood stuck and clumped in places. D'Artagnan quickly grabbed the bucket of water and the strips of cloth and brought them to Aramis. Aramis soaked one of the cloths and used the water to gently loosen and peel away the make-shift bandage.

“Could someone please go get my kit?” asked Aramis, his hands never leaving Porthos' skin.

“I tied up the horses, just over there in a thicket.” D'Artagnan moved to go, but Athos' hand stopped him.

“I'll go,” said Athos, and he disappeared into the shadows.

Aramis continued wiping away the grime and blood that caked Porthos' side. D'Artagnan tried not to wince as the filth gave way to an angry furrow above Porthos' hip. The wound was inflamed, but didn't seem to be bleeding much.

“D'Artagnan, 'm sorry.” D'Artagnan looked up, startled.

“What for?”

“For gettin' us into this.”

“I don't see what we could have done differently,” he answered lightly.

“You woulda been fine, riding with anyone else.” D'Artagnan frowned, trying to follow.

“I don't...”

“The half-black son of a slave don't draw the best sort of attention.” Porthos' voice was subdued. Aramis' hands froze, pink water dripping down as his fingers clenched around the rag.

D'Artagnan realized his jaw was slack and he shut his mouth with a snap and then opened it again, sputtering.

“Porthos,” he struggled. “No, no, no, it wasn't just you! It wasn't because of...” He swallowed and tried again. “They've done it before. To at least a dozen people.” Anger hardened his face. “None of this was your fault. None of it.”

“He's right.” Aramis' voice was clipped. He straightened up, his face thunderous. “They'd been doing this for months. It was how Athos and I knew where to even begin looking for you. This stretch of road had gotten a reputation.”

“They didn't target you. They took whoever was unlucky enough to come this way.” D'Artagnan laced his words with fire, desperate to make Porthos believe him. “You are the only reason I'm still breathing, Porthos. You kept us alive. You.” He tilted his head, peering up into Porthos dark eyes. “Do not apologize, for I feel incredibly lucky this day. Because I was with _you_.”

Porthos' face was unreadable, but it suddenly changed to a grimace and his knees buckled. Aramis was there, already positioning himself under Porthos' arm, like he'd known the big Musketeer's strength was gone.

He probably did.

And d'Artagnan did feel lucky. To be fiercely loved and protected by men such as these. To live and laugh and fight and to have them know him better than he knew himself. D'Artagnan was very aware of how fortunate they all were, to have each other.

D'Artagnan quickly grabbed the lamps and the bucket of water and moved everything to the cabin, where Aramis was steering Porthos.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis settled Porthos carefully on the ground next to the tree, but he didn't lean back, holding himself tensely upright. Aramis chose not to comment. Yet.

Instead, he took up his cloth again and tenderly wiped down Porthos' arms and hands, noting battered knuckles. He carefully felt along the swollen and blackened cheekbone. Aramis smoothed the cloth along Porthos' back, marked with scars he knew as well as his own. He did his best remove the day's dust and sweat and blood and wished he could do the same with the hurt.

Porthos bore all of this silently, stiffly. Even when Aramis moved to the wound at his waist. It was angry and the skin around it was hot to the touch. It was hard to say if the heat was infection or just trauma, but it wasn't good. He flushed it as quickly as he could, but he didn't need the hitch in Porthos' breathing to know how painful it was.

Athos appeared in the doorway, Aramis' kit and a clean shirt in his hands. Aramis took them with a smile. Athos quirked an eyebrow at him, asking the question.

“I'm not going to stitch it,” he answered conversationally and indirectly. “It's not bleeding anymore and I'd prefer to leave it.”

“It's infected. Isn't it?” asked Porthos, but it wasn't really a question. Aramis pressed his lips together.

“Perhaps. I'll know better in the morning. For tonight,” he said, pulling out the small jar he'd been looking for, “we'll see if this doesn't help a bit.”

“What is it?” inquired Athos.

“Calendula oil,” answered Aramis. “Made from a lovely little flower named after our Blessed Mother. It should help with the inflammation.”

D'Artagnan called Athos' name and he stepped away from the door. Aramis could hear their voices, but not their words and no one seemed alarmed. He knelt next to Porthos and carefully applied the salve to the wound and surrounding skin. He lightly covered it all with a bandage and then helped Porthos into the shirt, easing the fabric over muscles that shook with fatigue and tension.

Porthos was still fighting something.

Aramis could wait a bit longer.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos turned from the interior of the cabin at the sound of his name. D'Artagnan was standing near the fire, a strange look on his face. Athos walked toward him and the younger man shifted and tucked his hands under his arms nervously.

“Athos, I found something.”

“Go on.”

“I found where they...disposed of the bodies. Of all those travelers, the people who disappeared.”

“Disposed of?” repeated Athos, the words sour in his mouth. D'Artagnan nodded.

“There's a pit. Down that hill, beyond the horses. I found it this afternoon.” Athos stared into the fire, trying to order his thoughts. If he'd had any doubt about how they'd handled these men, it would be gone now.

“What will we do?” asked D'Artagnan. “They're not properly buried, we can't just leave them.”

“Did you tell Aramis?”

“Of course not,” said d'Artagnan, indignant. “I figure rotting bodies in a forest is the last thing he needs to see. He's wound tight enough as it is.” Athos inclined his head in agreement.

“We have to leave them.” D'Artagnan said nothing, but disapproval read all over his face.

“Can you and I fill it in? By ourselves and in a timely manner?” The young man blew out a harsh breath.

“No.”

“I understand, d'Artagnan, I do. But you were correct in your initial instinct. Aramis nor Porthos would benefit from seeing that. And I would do anything to keep them from it.” He paused for a moment.

“We will, of course, alert the constabulary in Artenay. They can proceed as they wish. Perhaps they might be able to identify some of the bodies, inform their families. And when we return to Paris, I will make sure the King is made aware of the things happening on his roads.” Athos allowed himself to rub his gritty eyes, suddenly tired.

When he looked up, d'Artagnan's dark eyes were soft and and too kind. Athos cleared his throat.

“That is the plan. Tonight, however, we should get some sleep.”

“I doubt very much,” muttered d'Artagnan with some humor, “that I'll be sleeping in this forest ever again.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

 

Aramis watched Porthos nod off and then straighten back up. It happened three more times. Porthos would nearly be asleep and then his eyes would open, filled with fear and pain, before he realized where he was. The terror faded, but the torment didn't. Aramis would not bear it.

He finished putting his kit away and then settled behind Porthos, gently pulling him back.

“What do you think you're doin'?” The question was hard.

“We,” stressed Aramis, “are going to sleep.”

“I can sleep just fine on my own.” Aramis leaned around to look at Porthos.

“Perhaps I can't.” The big man's eyes narrowed.

“Rubbish. M'not a child in need of mollycoddling,” grumbled Porthos.

“Never,” agreed Aramis, “But you are in need of rest.” He let his smile fade. “And I was worried.” Porthos' face softened. Maybe it was a manipulation, but it wasn't less true for it. “Please, Porthos. Let me do this.”

Aramis knew the moment he'd won. Porthos' shoulders drooped and he relaxed back. His weight was solid and fever hot, but Aramis welcomed it. An easy quiet fell between them, until Porthos spoke, so softly Aramis nearly didn't hear him.

“Am I the animal they thought me to be?”

So, this was the conflict Porthos couldn't let go of and Aramis had been waiting for.

“No,” said Aramis as evenly as he could manage. “You are good and kind and the best of men, even now, despite what they tried to do to you.” He hesitated for a moment. “I killed two of them. One in a blink of self-defense. And one in long minutes of anger. They were monsters. I won't lose a moment's peace over the deaths of the likes of them. Nor should you.” Aramis wrapped his arms loosely around Porthos' chest. “Not you, who are so much better than I will ever be. Now rest.”

As Porthos' muscles finally, _finally_ loosened and his breathing slowly became the rumble of a soft snore, Aramis blinked his burning eyes and rested his cheek against short, dark curls.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

When Athos peered in through the open door, he was rather surprised to see Aramis leaning against the tree with Porthos against his chest. Porthos was asleep, snoring lightly. It warmed him, this scene of affection.

But when Aramis looked up at him, it was a cold wind.

“What is it?” he asked softly. Aramis merely tightened his arms around the slumbering man and rocked, as though Porthos was a child.

It was a behavior that alarmed Athos more than anything else Aramis had done today.

“What is wrong?” he asked again, his voice was no louder but threaded with iron.

“He thought,” answered Aramis finally, “that they picked him. That this was a special sort of horror just for him. Because of the color of his skin.”

Athos let out a slow, long breath. He'd been mistaken in his initial fear, that something was badly wrong with Porthos. It was Aramis who was wounded, just not in anyway that could be stitched.

“And it's happened to him before. Did you know that? He told me about it once, long ago. I only just now remembered...chased, like a fox, through the streets of Paris. And no one did anything. No one tried to stop it.”

“But this was different. We came and we stopped them. They will never hurt another soul ever again,” said Athos calmly. He kept his voice quiet, but he knew well that if Porthos was truly asleep, their conversation wouldn't wake the big man.

“It isn't enough. Would that I could kill them all over again. Better still, if he had never known such cruelty,” said Aramis, his voice easing to a heartbroken whisper. “Then or now.”

Athos crouched down, his hand coming to rest lightly on Aramis' wrist.

“Few know better than us, that the past can't be changed or outrun. You have a great heart, Aramis, but even you cannot erase years of hardship with the force of your love.” Aramis continued to rock, ever so slightly, but his voice was steadier.

“You are right. But for him, I would try.”

“I know,” said Athos softly, as he stood. “Tonight, we keep him safe. Tomorrow, we take him home. And every day after that, we protect him best we can for as long as we can. That is no small thing, Aramis. Let it be enough.”

Aramis studied Athos' face for a long moment and whatever he looked for, he seemed to find it. He nodded.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: This entire fic was inspired by “Run Boy Run” by Woodkid, which was used in a trailer for the show. To me, it is very much a Porthos song.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

 

The bed was humming.

A low purr against his back.

He warm and safe, but he didn't understand how he _knew_ that.

But he was certain.

He was safe.

Porthos opened his eyes and remembered.

The running and the hiding and the blood.

The pain in his side was present, but not awful.

He anticipated the crush of remorse and anger.

The humming continued. He listened.

A tune that Aramis was given to whistling or humming.

A song about lost love.

What had he called it?

A la Claire Fontaine.

_Il y’a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai..._

The song stopped and words replaced the rumble against his back.

“I can hear you thinking.”

Porthos smirked.

And realized the heavy burden of emotion he was waiting for wasn't coming.

D'Artagnan was fine. His brothers had come for him.

The hunters had been terrible men.

It wasn't his fault.

Everything was not okay and it wasn't easier, but it was bearable.

It wasn't his fault.

He cautiously sat up, his side tight and sore. He twisted his head to look back at Aramis.

His friend was looking at him with dark eyes, filled with concern.

“I'm thinkin',” Porthos said roughly, “that your damn humming is a nuisance.” Slowly, Aramis' face lit up with that smile of his. The one Porthos loved, the one that was utterly true.

And Porthos smiled back.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“Are you sure?” Porthos gave Athos a withering look and continued to adjust Bourbon's tack, though slowly and carefully.

“Not stayin' here,” he answered resolutely. Athos looked at Aramis, who shrugged.

“His wound is healing, no fever, the swelling is down. If he wants to go...”

“We're not. Staying.” There was no anger, no heat. Just fact. Porthos had been able to make so few decisions for himself in the last days. Athos wanted to give him this one.

“Very well.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

D'Artagnan was looking at him while trying to look like he wasn't. Porthos stared him down until the young man finally met his gaze.

“You okay?” D'Artagnan nodded, his dark eyes sharp and grave. “Good. So am I.” Porthos swung up into his saddle gingerly. His side pulled, but he was done with this place.

“So what do you say we get the hell out of here, eh?” D'Artagnan looked relieved and then he pulled himself up onto one of the found horses.

“Best idea I've heard all week.” The young man was still studying him, though. “Are you sure you're alright?”

Porthos took a deep breath and thought about it.

“You'll see more than you ever thought possible as a soldier, more cruelty and grief. And I've known all sorts of people. Good people, bad people. People just doin' what they had to. You can't let the bad ones keep you from believin' in the decent ones.” He nodded toward Athos and Aramis across the clearing as they readied their horses. “They're some of the best. Not perfect, but none of us are, eh?” Porthos sniffed and looked at d'Artagnan. “I figure as long as I can count myself among men like them, I'm doin' alright. You can endure a lot, if you got the right friends.”

“And you,” said d'Artagnan softly. “You are a good man, too. I'm not sure where I'd be if not for you all.”

“In a field on a farm, safe,” said Porthos. He meant it to be teasing, but it didn't come out that way.

“In a field on a farm,” agreed d'Artagnan. “Bored to tears,” he added with a grin that was a bit wicked. “I regret the way my father died,” he said, sobering. “But I do not regret where it has led me.”

Porthos gave him an appraising look.

“That's good. 'Cause there's no goin' back.”

“So, forward then?” Porthos looked from d'Artagnan's smile to where Athos and Aramis waited.

“Yeah. Forward it is.”

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

_Tomorrow is another day._  
 _And you won’t have to hide away._  
 _You’ll be a man, boy!_ \-- Run Boy Run, Woodkid

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally done! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reviewed and helped me finish this thing. I hope you've enjoyed it!


End file.
